


Something old, something new, something leather, something blue

by TheSinBin87



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Dom/sub, Eventual Smut, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:02:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29377503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSinBin87/pseuds/TheSinBin87
Summary: You've just ended a long term relationship and discover a handsome long term acquaintance might just be your cup of tea.
Relationships: Link Neal/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 10





	1. Pepper Jelly

Feeling utterly lost and alone, stepping over the threshold and into fresh air, you try to keep a positive vibe. Not a fake smile or a performance, just openness to the thought that this could be a beginning rather than an end. Of what, god only knows, but anything is better than dwelling on the past when you’ve just terminated a relationship of three years.

Clinging to the comfortable familiarity of routine, you head for the little breakfast spot on the corner. A Saturday staple of yours for longer than those three years that are just gone now, just – stop. Positive outlook. You can do this. You can . . . well, you can certainly handle a Saturday, right? Start there. You can be positive without looking too far into the future, right?

The bell on the door announces your entry into the cozy space. No one looks up from their breakfasts. The artwork on the wall is all the same and all still there. You wish you could support this artist; you’ll be sorry to see their pieces rotated out at the end of the month, especially if none sell. This is one of the best batches you’ve seen. You stand at the front counter, gazing over at your favorite piece. No need to ring the bell on the counter, the door did an acceptable enough job of announcing your presence. The painting draws you in. Bubbles floating in outer space, each reflecting a beautiful landscape. One heavy forest. One arctic tundra. One lake house. The warped images beg you to trust the concept that they are reflections, and not contained within the bubble. The less possible of two impossibilities. For the first time, you spot the subtle detail among the beautiful stars of the freshly burst remnants of a bubble. Even though it never existed – maybe even in the artist’s mind – you can’t help wondering what image that bubble showed before its demise.

“Good morning!”

You’d have jumped out of your skin if the familiar voice hadn’t been so smooth. “Oh, good morning, Link. The usual, please.”

“That doesn’t work once you start switching things up, now.”

“Right, um, with the pepper jelly on there too. Let’s call that my new usual, okay?”

“You alright?” Link’s head cocks slightly and his vivid blue eyes study you, obscured more by sympathy than by his flawlessly clean glasses. His attention is intense. Laser focused on you. You feel like the only one in the room. This isn’t the first time, but it feels like it now that some small corner of your brain (and a fair bit of your stomach) are shouting, _“You’re single now!”_

“Yeah, why? Is pepper jelly the food of the troubled?” You chuckle and look confused. There’s no way Link knew about your breakup. Are you really so transparent? To a man you’d only consider an acquaintance?

“No, I was just–” his eyes flicked down to your neck and back, “–wondering.”

Oh my god, he knows. Your collar’s gone and he knows you’ve lost your Dom. Which means . . . he must . . . holy shit. “I’m . . . fine.”

Link smiles brightly and drops the subject, saying he’ll bring your food out when it’s ready. There’s something surreal about the whole interaction. In the moment, nothing could have made you question that he knew exactly what the simple silver choker meant all along, and exactly what its sudden absence meant. But as you sit at your table, you gradually convince yourself that it was all in your head. Wishful thinking, that the sexy silver fox that owned and operated the quaint little breakfast spot might turn out to have the same dark side as you. That he might be willing to share it with you. That it was no mistake to send such signals. Without making the conscious decision to do so, you lean into the fantasy. Graphic scenes playing out in your mind, heat rising in your gut . . . and lower. A silly fleeting thought whispers, _“If you’re not careful, he’ll smell you.”_

“You look tense.” This time, you do jump. Link laughs. It’s genuine and sweet and dangerously contagious.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Relax, girl! It’s a Saturday!” He sets your food down in front of you.

“Yes, Sir.” It slipped. You wince. Freeze. After a beat of silent stillness, you look up at him, brow crinkled in coy apology. He raises an eyebrow at you and looks around the dining area, gauging how much subtlety is needed for privacy. He rests a large warm hand between your shoulder blades and leans down, speaking softly. It’s difficult to hold still as the humid heat of his breath hits your ear.

“Too soon. Take some time. Re-center. You know where to find me.” He stands, the warmth of his breath and his hand lost, and with a customer service smile and a chipper, “Enjoy!” he retreats to the back room.

Bitterly thinking to yourself that a cold shower isn’t exactly a relaxing activity, you pick up your breakfast sandwich and take a bite. The pepper jelly and bacon complement each other really very well. It’s enough to distract from the freshly dropped bombshell for only the moment that it takes you to remember your new usual was a recommendation. From Link. It’s like he’s already got you figured out and you’re already wrapped around his finger. And the only thing that’s happened so far is . . . well, technically . . . a rejection.


	2. On Time

The whole week has been a roller coaster. You and your ex have returned the last of the other’s belongings. Seeing him wasn’t easy. The split was mutual and amicable, which not only made it harder somehow, but filled you with guilt over the fact that you’re already thinking about another man. A lot. But alone in your apartment there’s no guilt. Only fantasies. Some filthy. Others oddly domestic. He makes a mean breakfast sandwich, after all. Would he still have you cook for him even if he’s better at it? Just to punish you for overcooked eggs? What earns a real punishment instead of a funishment? What do those bright eyes do when he’s angry? How creative are his rules and tasks?

The questions have been running through your mind all week. And this perfect sunny Saturday morning is no different. How long does he think you need to wait? How do you test the waters without risking another rejection or coming off as needy or in some kind of hurry? Your shoes are already on before an idea strikes you. You grab a book, sit back down on your couch, and read a while.

Thirty minutes later, almost to the second, you put the book down and set out for breakfast – hungrier than usual.

“You’re late,” amusement clear in Link’s expressive features.

“You don’t close until two in the afternoon,” you cock your head the littlest bit like a confused puppy.

“I meant later than usual. Late for you.” The amusement is gone. He senses you’re playing at something. His trained expression holds a hint of warning. It stirs something within you, but now’s not the time to push. Stick to the plan.

“You big on routine?”

“I . . . well, yes.”

“Hm. I’ll have the usual, by the way.” You smirk. His eyes narrow.

“You got it.”

After watching him disappear into the back to prepare your breakfast, you sit at the same table you did last week. This is your table now. And you’ll be . . . on time . . . from here on out. It feels a little wrong. Almost like subbing to him without consent. But he saw what game you were playing today. Had no problem speaking up last time you stepped out of line. Even seemed to imply that the only thing standing between the two of you was a little bit of recovery time. Hopefully he doesn’t feel like a rebound. Is he? Do you just need someone else? You look around the dining room, considering each man. Playing a little scenario in your head for every one of them. Imagining their eyes flicker to your bare neck and asking if you were okay. The scenario felt more uncomfortable than enticing when it wasn’t Link in the starring role. And as loyal a person as you are, you’re not blind. You’d seen how attractive the slim energetic man was before you knew he ran with your pack. Not a rebound. Just . . . serendipity.

Link approached your table with your food while you were once again lost in the landscape bubbles against purple, pink, and blue splashes of galaxy. He slid your plate in front of you, “That one’s my favorite of this batch.”

“I think it’s my favorite of all the batches,” you say, glancing at him, but looking back to the painting and allowing your appreciation to show on your face.

“Would you like me to hold it for you?”

You turn your attention fully to Link, suddenly seeing a similarity between the colors of the painting and everything striking about the man in front of you. The cerulean of his eyes, starkly contrasted by the black rims of his glasses, and the tease of white in his dark hair. A pang of woe hits you. Not only can you not afford that painting, but what the hell makes you think you can give yourself to a man like this and feel worthy of his care? Serve him in the way that he deserves? You drop your eyes,

“No, thank you.”

“You sure?” He has that concerned look he had when he asked if you were okay last week. Either he’s very good at seeing what’s beneath the surface or you’re imagining things. Reading too much into him, because of the sudden news that his waters run deeper than you ever thought.

“Tell you what, I come into some money, I’ll give you a call, you pull that masterpiece down, and I’ll give it a loving home.”

“Sure.” Link eyes the piece as he walks back to the counter. You eye his backside. Then proceed to pretend you licked your lips because of the delicious sandwich in front of you, and dig in.

The next week, you’re sure to arrive “on time,” wearing eyeliner this time, and elated that your table is free. Despite your moment of discouragement last week, you decide to push the envelope. You and your ex were already dating when you discovered your submissive side. Frankly, you’ll always wonder if he really discovered a Dominant in himself as you two embarked on that journey, or if he was just going along with it. But the point is you’ve never had to pick up a Dom before. The pieces you had so far were that Link thought you should wait. As of two weeks ago, at least. And that he liked routine. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to try a little something. A gesture of trust. One of the most important things in a D/s dynamic. Even on such a small scale. Instead of standing at the counter to ask Link for what he knew you wanted, you sit at your table. You face forward, hands folded on the table, posture picture-perfect. In your periphery, you see Link peek out from the back room, look around, and disappear. You couldn’t tell if he saw you. But you trust him. And that trust is based in his preference of routine. You’re here on time. At your table. If he’s really interested, he couldn’t have missed you. It seems like a longer wait than it should be. But that could be a test. Or it could be that your nerves are stretching time to unnatural lengths.

Link emerges from the kitchen, plate in hand. You remain facing forward. The plate slides in front of you, and you smile. You look down at your . . . omelet. What the hell? You look up at Link. His expression is hard, but his eyes hold a glint of playful challenge. It’s a look you’ve never seen on him. It’s hot. Oh. It’s Dominant.

It clicks. Expecting to be served without asking was a little bit of a trust move, sure. But it was a little bit of a dominant move too. Until Link decided what to feed you. Something other than what you would have ordered. And there he stood, towering over you, waiting for a response. A customer would send it back. But a submissive . . .

“Thank you.”

Link leans in close, not looking around first this time. He’d already clocked everyone in the space. His eyes never leave yours. “Thank you, what?”

“Thank you, Sir.”

The corner of his lip perks up. He stands and walks to the back, something different about his stride.


	3. Paperwork

The omelet was delicious. You put your plate in the bus tray and approach the counter. Link speaks before you have the chance.

“Two o’clock. Bring this with you. Be on time.” He hands you an envelope.

“Yes, Sir.” You pull some cash from your pocket to pay for breakfast.

“It’s on the house today.”

“Oh . . . I – th- thank you, Sir.”

His eyes soften for a moment, under eyebrows that move so slightly you almost miss it. The bell over the door jingles and you extract yourself from the paralyzing stare, resisting the urge to open the envelope before you’re even outside.

At home, you pour over the paperwork, ranking activities as curiosities, pleasures, or limits, filling in details about yourself like measurements, hobbies, and allergies. Some parts of this assignment make more sense than others. Some get you hot and bothered. Some are just unnerving. And every so often, you glance at the index card that had been folded in with the paperwork, the only thing bearing Link’s handwriting. It’s the perfect reminder. “If it’s taking too long, remember this isn’t about me. Just you. For now.” Sure enough, every time you’ve been stuck, it’s been because you are trying to figure out what he would like to hear, rather than your true answer.

At two o’clock, you jingle that bell, and Link is headed right for you. Not rushed, but that gait is no mosey. He’s looking . . . past you. Sheer instinct has you side-stepping just in time. His stride is unbroken and he locks the front door through which you just came, flipping the open sign to proclaim his little kingdom closed. The only indication that you’re not invisible is that Link says, “Follow me,” on his way to the back room. You follow, almost at a trot, to keep up with him. He looks off to the side and chuckles, “We’ll work on that, then.” The tone is sweetly forgiving, but you are already feeling frustrated. Having somehow already fucked up.

It does occur to you that the immediate reprimand for breaking a rule you weren’t even in on yet may have been purposeful. Something to take you off balance right out of the gate.

What doesn’t occur to you is how much you made him work for it. Having arrived perfectly on time as instructed, – neither late nor early – having removed yourself from his path elegantly, not attempting to greet him casually, and obeying his order to follow him immediately and without question.

He takes you behind the counter, into the back, through a small kitchen area, and into an office. He moves behind the wooden desk in the room and sits before gesturing to the chair in front of the desk, “Sit.”

You do.

“Let’s see what you have for me.”

You hold out the envelope. He doesn’t reach for it, so you set it down on the desk. You watch his eyes trace little lightning bolts over your face, searching your expression. For something specific, or just general data, you’ll never know. But it’s not the slow assessment of admiration. Information is being collected.

The coldness of the interaction so far spreads to your feet. This feels new. So different. You wonder if it’s really what you’re after. Link seemed like such a warm person. Will you only feel that warmth intimately as some kind of reward?

He pulls your paperwork from the envelope. Skims most of it. Pauses in some places. Smiles in others. He carefully combs through your hobbies.

“You draw?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He moves on in the papers, until they’ve all been flipped over. He taps them into a neat pile and slips them into one of the desk’s drawers. He rests his arms on the desk, crossed at the wrists, his fingers tucked into loose fists. It’s a somewhat feline posture. His eyes have softened considerably.

“I’d like to take you to dinner.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“No, no. I’d like to take you on a dinner date. Get to know each other. We’ll be engaging in more than a power exchange. It will be a trust exchange first and foremost. I like that you’re on your toes, though.”

“Oh,” you smile, “okay, I’d love to.”

“Great! And since your shoulders dropped the slightest bit when you found out we’re just starting with a date instead of jumping right into roles . . . let’s compromise. You’ll have one rule to follow tonight,” you raise your eyebrows, the eager “Yes, Sir?” almost slipping out, but you aren’t sure that’s appropriate, so you just wait, “Don’t touch any doors.”

You furrow your brow. What a silly rule . . .

Link smirks.


End file.
